


Ode to Joy

by ignis_kun



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Angst, Bitter Nostalgia, Blood and Injury, Character Study, Childhood Memories, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Man you good?, Memories, Mentions of Cancer, Musical Instruments, Peeling Skin, Tags Are Hard, Violins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26455516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignis_kun/pseuds/ignis_kun
Summary: When left with a house only occupied by old family photos commemorating people long dead and ghostly figure, how does one reminisce on his past?By playing an instrument he's lost the calluses for of course.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Ode to Joy

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a personal headcanon of mine that Komeada was taught to play the violin as a child, and still knows how to, but struggles to anymore due to his own shakiness etcetera.
> 
> A small TW for morbid metaphors references to death, depictions of violence, and the stuff you kind of expect going into something about Nagito.
> 
> I originally had this on a very nicely formatted google doc with a bunch of nice colours and stuff just to share with a few friends, but I've decided to post it here as well. Might post a few of my other independent works as well.

If Nagito Komaeda's luck were just a smidgen less cruel he’d already be in the ground.

He lives completely alone. Any servants or maids that were left with him when he was young have already either quit or have been dismissed. He hasn’t left the house in weeks, ordering pre-made food and anything he needs in his refusal to go out of the bubble he’s made for himself. He’s stopped attending classes and ignored the ear-piercing ring of the phone (scam calls were always unpleasant to deal with, he’s irritated by the noise and can’t care to ever pick it up) which, out of frustration, he slammed onto the floor, shattering it into small bits and stopping the noise but pulling a muscle in the process. 

His body is slowly giving out on him. One diagnosis after the other after a blood test after a new medication, there’s always some kind of new treatment that they’re testing out that they swear will somehow cure his ailments, he’s one poke away from a long wooden pole from crumpling to the ground like a pile of dust.

He can never do anything without it coming to bite him back, really. He gets rid of one bad thing or has one good thing, and another one comes barreling at him at the speed of light, and there’s never been anything he could do to stop it. 

Lonely, sick and hyper fixated on a group he could never wish or imagine being on par with in the slightest. It’s the life he leads. He’s gotten ready to die alone in a house far too big for only one person and a bank account holding several times more than he’s worth. He has already done a good enough job convincing himself he’s a waste of oxygen and time, a stepping stone for others to succeed even if he has been invited to roam among the greats.

As he passes through the halls, slowly and with shaky legs, he stops at a certain door. He finds himself unable to remember what’s behind it. 

The curtains are always drawn shut in his home. The light is always bright enough to cause a migraine. The warm light from the outdoors is different from the piercing white lights of a hospital room, but still bothers him nonetheless. Devices always have their brightness turned down to the dullest setting, even if in some situations he has to strain his eyes in certain lights to see the multi-coloured spreadsheets before him that he’s memorized like the back of his hand. 

In the little bit of sun that’s shining through the curtains and into the room, Nagito is able to make out the rough shape of a few objects.

Taking his first step forwards, he coughs on the dust that has begun to procure in the room. He can’t place how long it’s been since he’s been in here. He would surely keep it clean if it’s a room he ever wanted to go in, as much as he doesn’t take care of himself he keeps his surroundings immaculate. He’s almost ashamed of himself for not dusting this area. He should go get a dus-

A solid black case rests on a chair, placed behind a music stand of the same colour. A few pieces of sheet music still rest on the stand with worn-out edges, displaying a song a young violinist once played. 

The young violinist Nagito once was. 

He’s able to realize where he is. The old music room. High ceilings and windows along with the dark red curtains that tinted the room the same colour when drawn. The lighting is rather ominous actually. He nervously chuckles. The room gives him a feeling of bitter nostalgia and dread. 

Nagito has hazy memories of learning and enjoying the instrument as a child. A violin by the crook of his neck and strawberry blonde hair that could never be tamed, always needed to be tied back so strands wouldn’t block bright green eyes and pale freckles that could be seen on close inspection. Even as a child, Nagito didn’t get much sunlight.

Life used to speak through every part of his appearance, and the callouses that started to form on his fingers spoke to the art that had been chosen for him to pursue. People change, and what once was a quiet young boy with lively eyes now likens himself to a sweaty, walking corpse with one foot in the grave and another foot still stuck outside, immovable and in place. 

He’s able to remember in the fogginess of his past the calm voice of his instructor, and the sheet music that had been placed before him to read. 

The music stand is exactly where it used to be. Or he assumes so. 

He remembers when he finally was able to play his first song all the way through, the strong sound of Ode to Joy filling the air and the small smile that had managed to cross his face when he looked up at his instructor when he played the final note, eyes bright and full of naivete and she congratulated him on a job well done.

The praise felt odd, but he couldn’t feel more proud at that moment of himself.

His instructor died on her way home in a horrific car crash. A truck ran into her car, and she was pronounced dead on site.   
  
He went through instructor after instructor, they grew ill, left for other opportunities, died like the first. There never was one that stayed for very long after he learnt a new piece. It became routine for him.

Eventually, Nagito’s parents decided it was best for him to learn on his own. He knew the basics after all. He could go on his own from there. Truly, he always knew that it wasn’t by choice. He had become a bad omen among instructors. Hushed whispers between maids and his parents didn’t go unheard.  
  
After every finished piece, there would be a new unfortunate event. A paper cut, a snapped string, a broken bow or even in one case the light from above coming loose and smashing on the ground, leaving small flakes of glass behind that were never truly fully swept up. A few always lingered. As he looks down at the ground, he swears he could see a few reflecting the red-tinted daylight.  
  
He hasn’t picked the violin up in at least a year. Two years? Three? He’s lost track of time. He hasn’t cared to keep track. Not like something so small truly mattered. 

He slowly walks over to the chair, his steps barely making a sound other than the near-inaudible creeks from the dark oak floorboards below. 

The box is unclipped and carefully placed on the ground, his back aching with every move as he takes a seat on the chair before him and opens the case. 

Inside is a glossy violin with a light layer of dust covering the surface. Nagito reaches down for it with bony, pale hands, lifting it up with care and disturbing the dust that had laid on it. He sneezes on the small particles as he wipes the instrument off with his sleeve, which is left there to lay on dark green fabric as he brings the instrument into place.

The violin against the crook of his neck feels uncomfortable against the swollen lymph nodes at the meeting between his neck and chin, along with the scar right by his shoulder where a tumour once laid. It had never been a fully comfortable position. He attempts to sit straight but finds himself still slightly hunched over. After hunkering over a desk and laptop for so long, it comes naturally to him. 

Positioning the bow between the bridge and the tailpiece of the violin, he plays the first song that comes to mind before stopping at the first note with shaky hands that put too much pressure on the instrument.

The violin is horribly out of tune. The sound feels as if a bullet has just been shot right into his ears and makes him want to drop the violin and cover them. Nothing gets dropped, however, and he clings to the instrument like a lifeline. 

He shakily fiddles around with the tuning pegs, attempting to tune the instrument. He thinks he can remember how the instrument should sound. Every wrong guess sends another sharp sound into the air and a shiver up his spine, making him wince at the noise.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been when he finally gets the violin sounding somewhat right, albeit the sound shaky and uncertain in comparison to the confidence it once held. He remembers how to play, but it’s hard to get his hands to settle in the right places and hold still. 

Nagito spends a few minutes in silence, reading over the music. It jumbles in his head, and for the first seconds, the lack of light does nothing to aid him in his confused haze until he reads over the paper, what he suspects, tens of hundreds of times.

After many read-throughs, he decides to play, even though the reasonable part of him is saying to just put the violin down and call it in. The part of him that speaks the truth: he will mess this up somehow.

The sound is a familiar memory, holding some warmth as he remembers the sunlight barely streaming into the room, though more than it did at this moment. His hair still held some of its colour, unruly as ever as he had stopped caring to brush it, washing it the few and infrequent times he showered. His hands were just as pale but less shaky. 

He’s playing the song correctly, but with none of the passion that made something like this truly beautiful. None of the _talent._

The high notes grate against his ears like steel wool and make him grit his teeth from something that used to bring him what he faintly recollects as joy. Music is supposed to be a beautiful sound, he longs to appreciate the sound he’s able to create but any gratitude or appreciation aimed towards himself always manages to crumble or shatter like lightbulbs falling from their place on a ceiling. 

The sound echoes through the empty room, playing for an audience of ghosts that roam the halls but truly for none. He’s playing for the back wall or the bright red curtains.

For one reason or another, he’s compelled to continue, clinging onto the bow like it could give him a few extra months of life or a single second of freedom. 

After barely getting through the two minutes of the song, or when he may have had the smallest smidgen of hope for himself despite the noise causing something akin to a migraine suddenly

One of the strings snaps, the bowstrings start to come loose and one of the tuning pegs pops off. 

His fingers feel sore as he slowly releases the previous tension he had on the steel strings. He once built up the calluses for this, but they’ve since faded with time, leaving only flaky, itching skin and bones for hands that are easily imprinted on with painful red lines from the strings of the violin. The hand holding the bow does nothing but shake at this moment.   
  
Nagito was dumb to ever think he could pick up an ages-old violin and start to play it without issue.  
  
The bow and violin are shakily put back into the black case and cold, silver clips are snapped back into place.

**Author's Note:**

> Le Festin as a song unironically fits Nagito Komeada :). Look at the lyrics I am not fucking joking.


End file.
